by Alan Chin
“Excellent,” the captain said. “Now that the old girl is fit, we can spend time at sea doing battle drills.”
Mitchell lifted his spoon and dug in. Thick and meaty, the soup’s richness permeated his mouth and warmed his stomach. The baguettes were crusty on the outside and soft and fragrant on the inside. A hush settled over the table as he sampled a spoonful.
He lifted his head. “I do believe this is the tastiest soup I’ve ever eaten. It’s remarkable.”
Heads nodded.
Ten minutes later, Grady served the main course of roasted duck in a red curry sauce resting beside sautéed vegetables, with a side dish of stir-fried noodles topped with chunks of fresh lobster, cooked sweet and gingery.
Each man gawked at his plate while Grady slipped from the cabin.
“Nathan,” Bitton said, “I think it’s safe to say we should give our Mr. Waters a promotion to seaman first class and make him the permanent officers’ mess cook.”
“Amen,” Moyer said, grabbing his fork and digging into his noodles.
Above the whir of the electric fan over the vent hole, the only sounds were silver scraping china and the occasional slurp from Ensign Moyer. The absence of conversation lasted for the several minutes it took the officers to devour their food.
The curry ignited a delicious fire in Mitchell’s mouth and broke a sweat across his forehead, but he couldn’t stop eating the blistering dish as fast as decorum allowed.
Bitton swallowed the last bit of succulent duck and wiped his forehead with a napkin. He turned to Moyer. “Otis, what’s the latest poop from the crew?”
Mitchell knew that Moyer held a fascination with what continually happened in enlisted country. He once explained that he saw the officers as the ship’s brain and the enlisted men as the nervous system—officers made decisions and issued orders, enlisted men carried those orders to the affected part of the ship and made things happen. He was tenaciously interested in the crew’s behavior and studied them as if he were comparing different specimens of insects under a magnifying glass. To Moyer, the sailors were not so much individual men who drank and fought and complained and held opinions, but rather, collectively formed that mysterious component that was the Pilgrim’s soul. He loved hearing gossip concerning the crew and always had some interesting story to tell. It was unclear where he got his information, whether in the confessional or from spies who informed on their shipmates, because he never revealed his sources.
Grady entered the room, and the officers fell silent while he removed the plates and brought in dessert. He placed a plate with a wedge of Bavarian cream pie and two scoops of coconut ice cream in front of each officer. The pie had slivers of toasted almonds on top and trembled next to the ice cream. He also set a cheese plate, with flakes of sharp cheddar and warm baguette slices, in the center of the table, and served each officer a cup of green tea before leaving the cabin.
The captain shook his head. “Gentlemen, we’ve hit pay dirt.” Laughter filled the room as he nodded at Moyer. “Well, Otis. You were about to say?”
Moyer swallowed a mouthful of pie. “Well, Skipper, as you can imagine, these new men have caused quite a stir among the crew. They don’t like fraternizing with Waters or Washington. They call them ‘The Dirty Ws’. The good news is that these new men are bringing the crew together, bound by a common hatred.”
Mitchell felt heat gathering about his scalp and knew it was not caused by the curry.
Bitton frowned. “And the bad news?”
“The crew has organized a betting pool. They’re betting on which W gets thrown overboard first.”
Mitchell slammed his fist on the table hard enough to rattle the china. “God dammit! I won’t stand for this.” His voice quivered and he could feel the veins bulge in his neck. “Spread the word that if anything happens to either of those boys, I’ll rip this crew a new asshole. If these boys so much as stub a toe, this crew won’t see liberty for the duration of this war. I’ll put them all on bread and water!”
The captain’s face flushed and his voice rose above Mitchell’s. “I couldn’t agree more. A gift from God drops in our laps—a real chef, a man who takes pride in his work—not to mention Washington, who is perfectly capable steward. I’m not losing either of these boys because of ignorant bigotry. I pity the poor son of a bitch that tries to harm these boys. By God, I do.” He stared into each officer’s face, as if to insure they understood the seriousness of his threat. The silence became deafening.
Grady stepped into the room again, balancing a tray on which he carried a bottle of Jack Daniels, a bowl of ice cubes, and five tumblers. He placed the tray next to the cheese plate before stacking the dirty dishes. The subordinate officers stared at the captain as tension sizzled in the air.
“Where the hell did he find that?” Bitton muttered, his voice returning to normal. “Washington, tell Seaman Waters to report to me immediately.”
“Yes, suh.”
Two minutes later, Andrew hurried into the room and came to attention.
“Seaman Waters,” Bitton said. “Dinner was superb, except for one thing.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I should have served a variety of cheeses with dessert, but I couldn’t find any. If we moor at a French-Polynesian island, I’ll find some Brie, Camembert, and perhaps a fine bleu.”
Bitton was visibly flabbergasted, and Mitchell had to suppress a smile.
Bitton recovered himself. “I’m talking about the whiskey. Transporting liquor aboard a United States warship is a criminal offense. I’m responsible for everything that happens aboard the Pilgrim. We can both be court-martialed.”
“Sir, I didn’t know. I’ll throw it overboard.” Andrew leaned forward to grab the bottle.
“No!” the captain barked, freezing Andrew in midreach. “Now that it’s here, it’s Navy property, and we have an obligation to use it wisely.”
The junior officers visibly relaxed. Tedder slid his tongue over his lower lip.
“I appreciate a stiff drink after dinner as much as any man,” Bitton said. “But only at anchor and only when the engines are shut down. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you find a bottle of fine whiskey? God knows it’s worth its weight in gold.”
“Sir, there’s a thriving black market on the island. I traded fourteen cases of Hershey bars for one case of whiskey, and I got two cases of burgundy wine in exchange for ten cases of cigarettes. I would have served wine with dinner, but I couldn’t find where they stowed it. Would the captain care for wine with dinner at sea, or is that restricted to being served at anchor as well?”
A full minute passed before Bitton, visibly stunned, mumbled, “Restrict the serving of all alcohol to in-port dinners. There’s one other issue. I must say that if you were trying to make a good first impression, you overshot the mark by a nautical mile. Based on your performance tonight, Lieutenant Mitchell and I agree that you are, as of now, promoted to Seaman First Class and the permanent officers’ mess cook. Normally the XO would inform you of a promotion, but I wanted to be the first to congratulate you. Well done, sailor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That is all, Waters. Keep up the excellent work.”
Bitton pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch from his hip pocket. While he filled the pipe bowl, Mitchell withdrew a pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket, took one, and threw the pack on the table for the others. Moyer measured two fingers of whiskey and two ice cubes into each tumbler while the men lit up. Each man paid careful attention to smoking and sipping his tea, but each man kept at least one eye on the whiskey.
Bitton finally grabbed his glass and knocked back his whiskey. The junior officers, except for Mitchell, joined him.
Mitchell paused another moment, savoring the anticipation, letting saliva gather in his mouth. He lifted his glass, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled the fragrant whiskey. He finally downed it in one long, sweet swallow. A lovely burn ignited his throat an
d he felt it settle in his full stomach. When a pleasant buzz hit his head, he immediately craved another, and he saw from the way his fellow officers stared at the bottle that he was not alone. His mind turned to Andrew, and his level of respect ratcheted up several notches. Once again, he felt that connection ripple through his center.
“Hell of a temptation, hey, gentlemen?” the captain said, waving out his match and tossing it into the ashtray. Sweet-smelling smoke stained the air. “I don’t think that’s putting it too strongly.” He slid his spectacles from his pocket and placed them on his face. “Much as I’d love to have another drink and see what other surprises jump out of the woodwork, I think we’ve left Chief Baker in command of the bridge long enough, so I’ll take my tea and join him.”
The officers rose. Mitchell stubbed out his cigarette and followed the captain, while the others sat again to finish their tea.
Chapter Seven
April 18, 1942—1800 hours
ANDREW rambled into the galley in time to see Grady and Cocoa polishing off the last of the pie.
“Buddha-boy,” Cocoa said through a mouthful of cream filling, “that’s the finest meal I ever ate aboard ship.” Cocoa consumed another spoonful. “What I can’t figure is why you ain’t eatin’ any of this. You fix a banquet, and sit there eatin’ steamed rice and vegetables. You got some kind of weird stomach problem?” He winked at Grady.
“I eat what I like,” Andrew said, as he stacked dirty dishes in the sink.
Grady said, “Never ate chow like this. All I ever had back home was pork belly, greens, grits, and good ol’ cornbread. But this spicy stuff taste’s real good, like Creole cookin’. Say, Andy, I’ll help you clean up.”
Andrew was afraid Grady would stain his pristine steward’s coat. “Thanks, Grady. Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got it covered.”
“Hey, you and me need to help each other out. It’s us two against all these crackers. They’re waitin’ for the chance to take us down. I overheard the officers say that the crew’s got them a bettin’ pool. They bet on anythin’, like when we get our next liberty or how soon we’ll see action. I heard they’re bettin’ on which one of us get thrown overboard first.”
“Oh yeah?” Andrew said with a smirk. “What kind of odds am I getting?”
“Man, you don’t want to know. You make up your own mind, but as for me, I don’t care how hot the forecastle gets, I ain’t sleepin’ on deck. Even that cracker Cocoa’s smiling sweetly and actin’ all buddy-buddy, but don’t go trustin’ him. I heard him put a bet down on you, sho’ ’nough.”
Andrew glanced over at Cocoa.
“Believe only this,” Grady continued, “all we got here is each other. You watch my back and I’ll be watchin’ yours, and maybe we’ll get through this alive.”
Andrew envisioned it happening. It would transpire during the twelve-to-four watch, that loneliest and darkest hole of the long night. It would start with the muffled thud of a splintering skull, and, already dead, he would plunge over the side and into the sea’s cold embrace. His body would drift close to the ship until the stern’s vortex sucked him into the whirling propeller blades. The vision crystallized in his mind, and the smirk faded from his lips.
Andrew scrutinized Cocoa with an accusing stare. “You bet on me?”
“You’re not going to believe this….” Cocoa stopped himself.
Andrew shook his head.
“Shit,” Cocoa said, “and I thought we was gonna be pals.” Cocoa couldn’t even finish the last of his pie. He tossed it into the garbage bin, plate and all, and stomped out. Grady nodded his head, as if that proved his point perfectly. He stalked out himself, leaving Andrew to clean the galley alone.
Andrew’s spirits fell as he surveyed his new domain. The room felt heavy with greasy odors. Too many meals cooked in too small a space had compressed into a thin film of yellow grease that covered every surface and stained everything the same lifeless color.
Andrew trudged to the sink and turned on the tap. Steam congested the already sweltering room. The soap he added had a disinfectant stench. He held his breath while stacking a tower of metal trays in the soapy water and launched himself into the physical act of meticulously washing each tray, mug, dish, and utensil. His mind emptied until his head was a mute cavern. It became simply movement, a ballet written in C minor—C for cleaning and minor for the effect it had on his spirits.
The hiss of the PA system startled Andrew as it resonated throughout the ship, followed by the shrill cry of the boatswain’s pipe. “Now hear this. Now hear this,” began the announcement. Captain Bitton’s voice magnified the humid air. “Men, it is my pleasure to pass on some good news that came over the harbor circuit.”
Andrew halted in midtask with his ear cocked toward the nearest speaker, attached to the bulkhead.
“Yesterday at eight hundred hours, our time,” the captain said, “General James Doolittle led an air strike aimed at the very heart of the enemy. The carrier Hornet launched twenty-eight B-25 bombers, six hundred miles off the Japanese mainland. They dropped their payloads on Tokyo to successfully achieve our first bombing raid over Japan. There is no word on the extent of the damage or the number of casualties. That is all.”
Jubilant seamen raised a deafening roar below decks, but Andrew sank deeper into depression. Blowing people to bits is nothing to cheer about, he thought. How many new widows were made today, how many mothers lost their sons, how many branches were severed from family trees?
There was nothing else to do but stow the clean dishes, but his depression still weighed heavy on his heart, so he scoured the pots and mixing machines and counters and walls. An hour later, Andrew surveyed his domain again. A job well done, he thought.
Satisfaction lifted his mood as he hauled himself to the deserted crew’s quarters. Lights-out was still hours away, so the men were lounging in the mess hall. Andrew looked forward to the pure silence to go with his solitude. He thought a cold shower would revive his exhausted body and he unbuttoned his shirt with unsteady fingers.
He opened his locker and there on the top shelf sat his Buddha statue. But in the dim light, he saw that someone had taken a knife and hacked the face off the wooden deity.
Andrew’s fingers caressed the statue’s wounds. The faceless Buddha sat as serenely as ever, unconcerned about the violation, but Andrew felt heat burning his temples. The statue itself meant little, but someone sneaking behind his back, too gutless to confront him to his face, infuriated him. He felt no compulsion for revenge, but he wanted to know who the culprit was. He considered long and hard about how to identify the coward, until an idea clicked in his head.
He rebuttoned his shirt and pulled Jah-Jai, his flute, from the locker. Holding the instrument with both hands, he ran his fingers over the smooth finish.
Jah-Jai was made of thick bamboo. Beautifully subtle veins weaved through the wood, and each hole was worn smooth from years of use. It had been a gift from Master Jung-Wei, who had hand carved the instrument and taught Andrew how to call forth its voice.
Andrew sauntered into the ovenlike mess hall. The compartment reeked of a mixture of fried potatoes, burnt chicken fat, and human sweat. He wandered through the rows of tables with his flute held chest high as he studied the remaining empty seats with a troubled scowl, trying to find the safest spot available.
He saw Grady sitting in the far corner with his head bent over a sheet of yellow paper, writing a letter. Andrew rambled toward him and swung into the next seat over. He glanced at Grady, as if noticing him for the first time. Grady offered him a relieved grin.
Cocoa played bridge at the next table with Stokes, Kelso, and Nash. Hudson was perched on a table in the center of a group of spellbound crewmen, chewing on a half-burned cigar and recounting what it was like at Pearl on that fateful day. Although he described the horrors of battle, he used tones that might be used to depict something thrilling, as if he were bragging about an alluring sexual conquest. His chest swelled, stretch
ing his T-shirt tight across his pectorals. Each movement of his hands and each facial expression broadcasted his arrogance, even as his words tried to assume modesty.
Sailors gathered around Hudson like baby chicks huddled around their mother with open mouths. Even the old salts listened as they read novels, sewed, or played cards. Only Andrew ignored him. Only Andrew did not bow to his pride.
Andrew brought Jah-Jai to his lips and notes rippled across the smoke-filled room with a cheerful refrain.
Andrew’s snub visibly diminished Hudson’s dignity. Hudson raised his voice to drown out the flute’s melody, but Andrew continued to play, seemingly unaware of him. Hudson paused to stare. He gestured in Andrew’s direction with his stubby cigar held between two fingers. “Hey, rookie. Can that chink music.”
The room hushed. Every head swiveled toward Andrew. Hudson pulled out his Ronson, relit his cigar, and exhaled an authoritative puff of smoke in Andrew’s direction.
Andrew reminded himself of survival rule number one as he lowered Jah-Jai. “I’d hardly consider Mozart a chink. However, I can play Handel if you’d prefer. Is he racially acceptable to everyone?”
Mozart affected Andrew deeply. His spirits soared from the music and he realized that he was not being as cautious as he should be. He swallowed hard, noting a metal taste in his mouth.
Hudson’s face flared purple. “I’ll get a handle on your fucking balls if you keep playing that shit!” The bluster in his voice showed he meant what he said.
Laughter erupted around Andrew. Scornful laughter—what a penetrating thing it was. Giddy and gay and joyful, yet it touched a hidden nerve ever so masterfully. Only Andrew and Grady remained silent.
“Speaking of balls,” Andrew said, loud enough for all to hear. “Whoever defaced my statue, I understand that you’re angry, but try growing enough spine to confront me to my face.”
“Don’t strain your milk over it, rookie,” Hudson said. “It’s only a piece of wood.”
